


Things That Go Bump in the Night

by cactusnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 07:24:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16424948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusnell/pseuds/cactusnell
Summary: It's been a while since I posted anything as I have been suffering a severe case of writers' block. But I couldn't let Halloween pass without making an effort. This is a ghost story, but don't worry - I haven't killed off anyone who isn't already dead! Sherlolly





	Things That Go Bump in the Night

It was just before five in the evening as Sherlock Holmes approached St. Bart’s. He was running a bit late, so Molly should be ready to leave as soon as he got to her office. He must admit that he had been just a bit distracted as he walked the short distance to the hospital. A few years ago the sight a small children in costumes would have been little more than an annoyance, but this year he found himself chuckling a bit, and smiling at little princesses, demons, and ghosts. Only the younger children seemed to be out and about, accompanied by parents, as it was still daylight. The older ones seemed to be waiting until after sunset, which would occur at 5:43 on this Halloween afternoon, if memory served him. He had just enough time to meet Molly Hooper and escort her to the Watson residence, where he was sure young Watson, their goddaughter, was already adorned in her tiny bumblebee costume. Sherlock had designed it himself, and Molly had, as usual, done all the work. John had insisted that the store bought costume he had selected, a run-of-the-mill princess outfit, was perfectly acceptable, but Rosie had sided with her Unca Lock and Aunt Mowy, proving that she was a child of extraordinary taste and discernment, according to Sherlock. Molly thought she just liked the vivid yellow and black stripes. They were planning on sharing a takeaway meal with the Watsons as they answered the miniature extortionists ringing the doorbell demanding treats. He knew already that Rosie would just love all the ghoulies, and ghosties, and long-leggedy beasties who darkened her doorway. 

The detective quickly made his way to the morgue to find his pathologist in her small office, speaking rather earnestly on her phone. He was about to make a hurrying gesture when he caught the word “Mum”. Molly would not appreciate his interrupting a conversation with her widowed mother, and beside that, her relief, the overnight morgue attendant, was nowhere to be found. Unfortunately, this meant they would have to wait until he arrived, as it would not due to leave the facility unattended, especially on this night, famous for pranks, sometimes of a gruesome nature. Sherlock left Molly to her conversation, and walked into the morgue. The lingering smell of death, and the presence of corpsicles lying in the nearby cold storage units had never really affected him, but this night, for some reason, the atmosphere seemed peculiarly oppressive. He glanced around the dimly lit room, the lights having been lowered after the last autopsy had been performed and the cadaver stowed away. It may have been dim. But it was far from dark. So why did the shadows seem so much deeper than usual, with darkness pooling in every available nook and cranny? Sherlock scanned the facility until his eyes fell upon an anomaly - a middle-aged man of small stature sitting quietly in a darkened corner adjacent to the cold storage units

The man looked particularly intense, as if he were watching for something. He almost reminded Sherlock of that story of “Bobby of Blackfriars”, the faithful dog who returned over and over again to stand guard at his dead master’s graveside. Shaking this thought from his mind, he approached the man and asked what his business was in the morgue at this hour.

“I’m watching over my little girl,” the main said in a matter of fact tone. “I know I may seem a bit ridiculous. She certainly doesn’t need looking after at this late date, but it does make me feel a little better.”

Sherlock glanced at the storage locker the man sat next to, and made what he deemed to be an appropriate remark, “I’m sorry for your loss. But surely, you could find somewhere else to mourn. She’s in good hands, you know. There’s no one better, more professional or compassionate, than Dr. Hooper…”

“Of course. I know that… It’s more for me than for her. I like to think I’m protecting her, guarding her, in a sense, even though she may no longer need guarding or protection.” The man seemed to be talking to himself as much as to the detective. He then lifted his face to fix the detective with his piercing green eyes. “You’re Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you? I’ve heard a lot about you. My daughter is a big fan.” Sherlock noticed the use of the present tense, chalking it up to the man’s inability to deal with so recent a loss. The man continued as he ran his fingers through his ginger hair. “From what I heard about you, you know what it’s like to want to protect the people you care for.”

“I do have some experience in that regard, yes. There are some people worth caring for like that. I have experienced loyalty from many of my friends, and I like to return it it kind. But I’m no hero, or angel…”

“You don’t have to be a angel to be a guardian, Mr. Holmes. I should know, after all,” the man smiled, and the smile looked somehow familiar. 

“Do I know you? I don’t usually forget faces, but you somehow seem familiar. Have we met before?”

“Never before, Mr. Holmes, but I have a feeling we may see each other again. At least I hope so. I may want to check in on you occasionally, so to speak, just to see how you’re doing with this guardian business.”

This seemed to be a rather cryptic comment, but Sherlock let it pass. Instead, he merely asked, “May I know you’re name, then?”

“It’s Martin,” the stranger replied with the same familiar smile. “And you’re right, of course. There is someplace I could be instead of a chilly morgue on a Halloween night. It’s my wedding anniversary, you see, and I like to spend it with my wife. I know what you’re thinking - strange man to get married on Halloween. But there was a method to my madness. Who forgets Halloween, after all? So, by extension, how could I ever forget my anniversary? Saved a lot of arguments over the course of my marriage, I tell you. Get married on a holiday, and you’ll live happily ever after!” 

“I’ll bear that in mind, Martin,” Sherlock said, thinking a Christmas wedding might be nice. Just then, the doors to the morgue slammed open and the rather tardy night attendant finally showed up. “Wilson, you’re late!” Sherlock was the first to greet him in a not too friendly manner.

The strange man with the green eyes then took once again to scanning all the darkened corners of the lab, searching in the shadows for things Sherlock couldn’t understand, stopping momentarily at one spot, then another, as a look of concern crossed his face. Finally, he said, “One more thing, Mr. Holmes. If you would be so kind, please convey my fond farewells to Molly, and pass along a message for me, eh?”

“What message?”

“Tell her her old Nan was right. The veil grows thin at this time of the year. Tell her to keep her walls up. Not all of us who go bump in the night are as benevolent as I.” He then nodded his head as if to say farewell. “And take care of her, please. Remember, I know where to find you!”

“I don’t remember giving you my address,” the detective said with a smirk, although he knew full well that his residence at Baker Street was common knowledge. “And I need no threat to take care of my pathologist. I intend to do just that for the rest of my life.”

“Perhaps even longer - one never knows, does one?”

Sherlock turned to look for Molly’s relief, just to make sure he was ready to take over, but when he turned back to say goodbye to Martin, we found that the man had disappeared without a trace. Feeling inexplicably uncomfortable, he made his way to the island of light in the dim morgue that was Molly’s office, where he found her hurriedly gathering her things as she prepared to leave. “Sorry for the delay, Sherlock. That was my mum on the phone. She always gets depressed on Halloween. It was Dad’s favorite holiday. He liked it so much he even insisted they get married on October 31. I really think it was so he would never forget their anniversary. He was a bit forgetful at times.” It was then that she noticed that her escort had gone a bit paler even than usual. “Sherlock, what’s the matter?”

“What was your father’s name, if I may ask. I don’t think you’ve ever told me. I’ve only ever heard you refer to him as ‘Dad’.”

“Martin. His name was Martin,” Molly said as she repeated her father’s name. “We never called him Marty, it was always Martin.” Then, as if reliving a pleasant memory she smiled a very familiar smile. “He had lovely green eyes, and a great mop of ginger hair. I think it was his Irish blood. He was like my Nan, his mother. They believed in fairies and leprechauns and everything in-between. Nan’s stories of the banshee used to scare me witless, I tell you!”

Sherlock felt a chill go through him, and moved quickly to pull Molly closer to him. And as he escorted her through the morgue into the Halloween night, who could blame him if he looked a little more closely at the pools of darkness in the shadows of the tall buildings and wondered, perhaps, what lurked there. They walked quickly and found a cab almost immediately. As they made themselves comfortable in the rear, the detective finally relaxed his watch a bit. He knew now that he was not the only one looking after his Molly. He reached for her hand, and asked almost reverently, “Molly, how would you feel about a Christmas wedding?” And she was just fine with it.


End file.
